


Bare

by ShyOwl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Saint, John love, John-centric, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Possessive Sherlock, Self-Harm, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, Wingfic, mention of suicide, minor dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyOwl/pseuds/ShyOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Watson was four he plucked a feather from his wing and gave it to someone else. He has yet to stop. </p><p>(wing-fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Break It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [You_Light_The_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/gifts).



> Inspired, and for, You_Light_The_Sky and her beautiful Johnlock wingfic "Not the Hands that Kill"
> 
> I do not own Sherlock. It is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC netword, Moffat/Gatiss.

-o-

When John Watson was four, he plucked a feather from his wing and gave it to someone else.

She was his neighbor, only a year older than himself. Her soft cream-colored wings were drying and falling, much like her hair. Clarisa hadn’t been feeling well for weeks and it had started to show physically.

At the time, John didn’t understand. All he could comprehend was that his friend didn’t feel well and he wanted to make her smile again. And within his child’s mind he thought ‘everyone loves their wings and hers hurt’. It was a simple equation to give her one of his healthier white feathers to make her feel better.

It was painful. It felt worse than the time Harry pulled his hair from his scalp or when she pinched his skin. It was a single point of pain that somehow shuddered throughout his whole body.

John Watson very nearly started to sob.

But when Clarisa took the pretty feather and stroked it, when she gave him a grateful smile, he was able to bite it back and smile in return.

The numbing throb in his wings and spine lasted three days.

-o-

Eight months later, on the cusps of John turning five, Clarisa’s parents came home from the hospital without her.

They were solemn and grey-face. It was like they would never smile again.

John didn’t understand what was happening, but he was more aware than typical children. Although he didn’t understand the how or why, he did know that Clarisa was never coming home.

For nearly a week, John watched her parents move sluggishly and without any life. Like those zombies he saw in the movie when sneaking a peek at what his sister was up too (he never told his parents Harry watched a rated-R movie, that would only bring upon bad things).

His mother would whisper the word “funeral” and “devastating” but he couldn’t get any other information from her. 

It was on the sixth day that John went next door and handed Clarisa’s parents two white feathers.

Both were horrified, though he didn’t understand why, and asked him why he would do something like that.

John just said, “Clarisa smiled when I gave one to her. I thought it would make you smile again too.”

For some reason it didn’t make them smile. It made them cry.

John had never been hugged so hard in his life.

-o-

When John was seven his father came home furious at the world. And when Mr. Watson was furious at the world, he usually took it out on his family.

His mother tried to calm everything down. She offered her husband drink, food, and silence but it only made the man scream louder and shake his fists with more force. 

Harry and John, forced against the wall to listen and watch, could only tremble under the dark pressure that was their father.

He raved for what felt like hours, swiping his hands around like claws and striking whoever and whatever without apology. John’s mother had a bloody nose and Harry’s arm would be bruised for two weeks.

John, with a sore collarbone, remembered the affection he received when he gave Clarisa’s parents the feathers and decided it couldn’t hurt to try for his father. He plucked the white feather from his wings and slowly approached his panting father.

“Here daddy.” He said, holding it up to him.

Tucker Watson looked down at the gift, confusion overtaking the rage in his face. “What is that for?”

“You. You don’t feel good. Feathers make everyone feel better. I thought it would do the same for you.” John explained honestly, because he has always been a very honest child (lies were not accepted in the Watson household).

“Oh…” Tucker blinked and looked around at the state of his family. “Oh.”

Mr. Watson didn’t rest a hand on his family again for three whole days.

-o-

At John’s pre-teenage year he befriended a troubled kid by the name of Thomas. He was brash and loud and had an affinity for sketching rather than taking notes. They both felt a connection before they had to open their mouths. Their eyes locked and they knew they came from a very similar household.

They had lunch together often, snuck out after curfew to just breathe in air that didn’t smell like sour liquor and stale hope.

They met at least once a week at a small clearing outside of their town and talked. Sometimes John would help Thomas with homework just so he could pass. Other times Thomas would show John his hundreds of drawing pads that were filled with art that John knew was rare for a kid his age. Most times, they would just stare up at the sky, wishing their wings would take them up there and away from their home.

One time, Thomas confessed that he was gay. He knew it when he was young. His folks knew it too but never wanted to acknowledge it, too afraid it wouldn’t be just some hormone-stage. Thomas felt it was a reason why they hurt him they way they did. 

Not only did they have a child who had a talent as useless as art, but one that preferred those of his same gender.

“I don’t think I’m gay.” John replied simply. “I don’t feel like it, at least not like you do. But I don’t think it matters. It shouldn’t. Why hurt someone for being themselves?”

Thomas smiled and spread out his grey wings that were speckled with brown. His wings looked as freckled as he did.

“You’re a good guy, Watson. But even I know that is pretty naïve. Everyone hurts everyone cause they’re themselves.”

John frowned and looked at the sky, playing with his empty soda bottle. “Guess so.” He finally relented, unable to come up with a strong argument to prove Thomas otherwise.

They remained friends throughout the school year.

John excelled in school. He loved science and English the most. He adored learning and feeling around within his brain to discover new ways to understand something. People who were smarter and who could comprehend things fascinated and inspired him. He never felt he was better than anyone else, but he always had a passion to try and get better at everything he did.

Thomas, on the other hand, was drowning.

He couldn’t grasp onto any subject. He acted out in anger constantly. His art, which was once filled with heroes and dragons, was turning dark and corrupted. Even at the age of thirteen he already had taken to the bottle, like his parents, and would come to school drunk.

The bruises would peek out from the confinements of his clothes, giving the world a sad message of his life—but no help ever came from him; at least no help from someone who could actually change anything.

A week before summer vacation, Thomas and John met up where they enjoyed watching stars. John had a test the next day, but he didn’t mind staying up real late for Thomas.

Thomas’ wings were showing greyer than freckles and looked too heavy for his sad body.

So John did what he had done before. He plucked a feather from his wing and handed it to his good friend.

Thomas didn’t question it. He just smiled, a sad smile, and held it close to him. 

“Watson, you’re a good guy.” Thomas said, his eyes moist with tears. His thumb brushed over the feather tenderly. “A real good guy. Don’t change. Please?”

“I,” John’s throat felt tight. “I promise.”

Thomas killed himself two days later.

The pain in John’s wings lasted four months.

-o-

Four days after his fifteenth birthday, John’s father lost his job.

The Watson household was tense and prickly. Everything felt like shattered glass that had been put back together too many times. It was terrifying to even breathe in fear of seducing wrath.

For roughly two days nothing happened. Although silent, Tucker Watson gave no indication he would react to his job loss.

But the Watson family knew better to have hope he would let it go.

On the third day, he snapped.

He screamed and raged and threw fists and objects. Harry suffered a cut so deep on her head that required for four stiches and his mother sported a black eye. 

John felt the heaviest burnt of the rage.

His nose was broken, his left eye swollen shut, and his ribs bruised. It was bad and he knew he would have to come up with a compelling story to keep his teachers off his back. 

This fit of his father’s was bad. Dangerously so. He never hit them where it would show. This might be the very fit that would leave one of them dead.

‘I don’t want to die.’ John thought, groaning upon the floor of the kitchen. ‘Please God. I don’t want to die.’

John plucked two feathers from his wings this time. With weak legs he heaved himself up and approached his father, holding out the feather. He prayed it would work this time, like it did the last

His father stopped his rage, panting, and staring at his son much like he did before.

“Mom, h-here.” John begged, handing the other to his sobbing mother. She was cradling her face. “Please…”

She looked at him unsure and tried to take the beautiful white feather only to have it ripped from her sight.

“Useless! Useless boy!” Tucker snarled, sounding more animal than human. His brown wings flapped around, acting like a terror. “You think a feather, a worthless feather, is going to change anything? We all have feathers!” He slapped John back to the ground and pressed his heel on the bone of John’s calf. “What we need is money, an income! Does that comprehend in that day-dreamer’s head of yours?”

John hissed as more pressure was placed on his leg. 

“Useless.” Tucker Watson snapped both feathers in his fingers and stomped them into the ground, next to John’s bruising leg.

He then stormed out of the kitchen, raging about something incomprehensible. His family lay broken on the tile floor.

John’s feathers stopped reproducing after that.

-o-

Harry announced her sexuality to the family when John was seventeen.

Ever since the beating of John’s birthday week, she had never been the same. Much like Thomas, she started to turn to the bottle as a way to cope with her life. John took some relief that it took her till near twenty to turn to such a path; though he had hoped she would avoid it completely.

The announcement threw everything into Hell once more.

Their mother started to screech and cry. She reacted like Harry’s way of love was a worse fate than being married to Tucker. She broke into sobs, asking God why she deserved all of this torment, and turned away when Tucker rose to his feet.

Harry visibly shuddered but she kept her cool stare upon her father.

“Don’t have to scream.” She sneered. “I plan on moving out immediately. Got an apartment and everything. And no worries, mother,” she spat out the term to the crying woman. “I won’t associate with either of you so as to no longer shame you.”

“Why bother telling us then? It would’ve been better if you just kept it to yourself and get out of our lives.” Tucker snapped. His voice was already slurring. It wasn’t even noon but John knew he had already had four beers.

Harry’s face twisted into a smirk, “just wanted to let my dear parents know about their daughter. I must admit I had hoped…” she licked her lips, her cruel voice stuttering briefly. John swore he saw her as an eight-year-old child once more. But instantly her face was back to passive, collected anger. “I had hoped you would actually accept this part of me…but I am an adult and know better. I just told you to twist your balls.”

John inhaled a sharp breath and stared at his older sister in awe.

She actually told Tucker Watson off.

She told a tipsy, rage-filled Tucker Watson off. 

And she looked proud of it. Her back was straight, her dark blond hair tidy and her blue eyes strong. Her wings, the color of gold, looked large and healthy. Ready to beat her father’s hurricane back with one of her own.

It filled John’s chest with something and he couldn’t stop himself. He reached over his shoulder and pulled another feather from his back and handed it to his sister.

“I’m glad to know, Harry.” He said, looking at her with a small smile. “I’m glad you finally told me. I’m glad to hear who you really are. And I won’t cry or throw a pissy tantrum over it.”

Harry stared at him a moment and then smirked. “Looks like you at least got some guts. I’ll make a man of you yet.” She looked back to her parents briefly, absorbing their raw shock and displeasure, before she gave a pat to John’s back, careful of his wings. “I got an extra room with your name on it.”

John nodded. “I’ll take it.”

Three hours later, three hours filled with more arguments and some packing, the two Watson children were saying goodbye to their parents for the final time. 

And despite never being close with his sister, John walked out the house with her, hand in hand, a single white feather in between their fingers.

-o-

Times grew hard for John in medical school. Despite a strong scholarship and keeping his grades high, he was mentally slipping away.

Although he never regretted leaving the Watson household with his sister, there was no fairy tale ending for the two of them afterwards.

Despite walking out on her own, Harry could not shake off her abusive history. No matter how intelligent and how stubborn she was she was poisoning herself daily. She splurged rent money on her addiction with alcohol and lost the pride that helped her survive all those years growing up.

She guilted John constantly for his time spent at school. She dragged him down with words of ridicule and hate. She fell into drunken rages and blamed him for everything.

One night she took her lighter and burned the feather he gave her just to spite him. 

Harry regretted it the next morning. She was inconsolable and tried to find a way to get it put back together, but could do nothing with little particles from the air. 

Her breakdown lasted three days and it nearly killed her from the intense binging that followed.

John saw their father in her and it terrified him.

No matter how much he begged or raged himself, his hands could not save Harry. In fact, John was convinced he was making things worse. He was the physical reminder of what they left behind.

He knew he was losing himself to depression, boredom, loneliness, and stress. He had fought so hard to survive up to this point; it would seem like a waste if he failed on himself now.

He was going to help people. He was going to make sure people are taken care of and would prevent others from being hurt. While, perhaps, there was nothing special about him he wanted to make sure the special were catered to. He didn’t want them overlooked or hurt simply because they were themselves.

So, one night, after she had safely passed out, John packed his bags and left a note with a single white feather on it. 

He was enlisted by the next morning.

-o-

John gave up nearly thirty feathers during his service.

He gave sixteen fallen comrades one as they passed on from this world to the next. Twelve lived but lost their wings. Crushed from metal, shrapnel, or hands. Knowing they would never have soft feathers again brought memories of Clarisa back and he had to give them all one, if only for the chance of bringing them some comfort.

Besides, if his comrades could lose his wings than he could lose a few more feathers without complaint.

So many called him Angel. It was a nickname that embarrassed him and no matter how hard he fought the ridiculous name there was no escaping it.

After nearly a year on the field, John found the name itching at something within him. 

Angel didn’t suit him. He didn’t deserve the name.

It felt hard to believe in angels, even when called one himself, out in the field. The taste of blood and sand haunted his tongue throughout all hours. Screams for mothers and bargains for second chances echoed constantly between his ears.

It was hard.

Even harder still that John found he enjoyed the majority that war brought him. He was constantly excited, ready to jump into action. He strangely looked forward to the next siren, the next wave of panic, and the sound of gunfire.

How was he considered some sort of angel when he desired violence and action so desperately? When calmness and normality made him feel restless and on edge?

John wanted to blame his family. He wanted to say this was all their fault and because he was always on edge, and always ready for danger, he was no longer normal. But, that wasn’t good nor fair.

He was trying to be a doctor to protect people who were different, to help them see it was fine to be yourself. It was hard to do that while hating yourself so much.

Most days, John tried not to let his mind wander to that thought and just concentrate on survival and the survival of others. Whether he was unusual or not, it didn’t matter. War, on the other hand, did.

War was where he belonged.

Then John was shot. A bullet ripped through his shoulder and into his white wings, staining the feathers red. The wing muscles rippled before an agony unlike anything John had felt before.

A fire erupted through his body, concentrating on his spine. At the time, John could have sworn his spine was being removed from his back because his wings were trying to fly away from him. Perhaps tired of all the plucking John has given them over the years. 

He tried to reach back for them, tried to hold them back to his body, but his arm wouldn’t work correctly and his head was dizzy and why was he looking up at the sky?

Was he back with Thomas? Did he just doze off and dream it all up?

Was he late? Oh god, if his father discovered he had snuck out…

John vomited over himself, or at least he assumed he did, his throat burned like it did. He wasn’t sure.

Everything was swirling. He didn’t know where he was.

Was he going to die? No, no. He didn’t want to die. He had plans, right? Didn’t he have plans to help people?

‘Oh God…oh please God, don’t let me die.’ 

Once the screams of his comrades, his friends, started to disappear along with his vision John heard the voice of his father; “useless” he said as he pressed his foot on John’s leg. “Useless boy. Everyone has feathers. What they need is a real doctor. Not one around here. Just a useless, useless boy.”

And the pain in his leg shot all the way up to new, bleeding wound.

-o-

His wings still had feathers left, but it was clear they were they were unhealthy and many would assume he was molting. 

Already, it was easy to see the naked muscle that was typically hidden under the feathers. Ugly naked skin with bristles and splotches of blood and bruises that would probably never disappear.

John kept his wings hidden now. Folded tight under large jumpers that hid away any sort of personality and feelings.

John was growing quite tired of feeling. Feeling only brought pain. Feeling reminded him of the ugly lump on his back. Feeling reminded him of what he has lost. 

And feeling reminded him that all he wanted to do was reach behind him and pluck his feathers and give it to someone who was in pain like him.

But who would want feathers from a broken, naked man like him?

Apparently, luckily, a crazed sociopath with wings as black as ink waltzed into his life with a wink and John found the person he wanted to give all his feathers to.


	2. Fix It

-o-

“You did it yourself.”

It was three months after their first case together when Sherlock pointed it out. It was random, like many of Sherlock’s statements were, and came as John was taking a nice sip of hot tea.

“Excuse me?”

“Your wings. The missing feathers. Yes, yes many are from the wound, but the majority you removed yourself.” Sherlock tilted his head as he regarded the unassuming man before him. “I confirmed it to myself the second time I saw them. But I have yet to understand why.”

“Ah.” John folded up his newspaper, looking around for any new crimes his crazed roommate may want to take part of. So far, none. It was going to be another day dealing with a hyped up Sherlock. “It’s…simple and complicated at the same time. Nothing really special.”

Sherlock’s grey eyes narrowed in on him. Demanding answers.

John sighed, “It started with my neighbor Clarisa…”

John’s story lasted three hours. He answered all the questions Sherlock was curious about; removing feathers cause a painful prick, does it not? How many feathers have you lost? Why weren’t they growing back?

Sherlock was, strangely subdued, throughout the story. Despite his questions and need to have answers, he didn’t come off restless or bored (and he was no fan of stories, just facts). His face and eyes did preform the strangest, most subtle, tick John had ever witnessed when John’s abuse was brushed over…but other than that there wasn’t much of any reaction to be seen.

Afterwards Sherlock grew silent and then left.

John didn’t feel insulted. Nor did he feel weird. 

He felt relieved. He had never shared that story with anyone, not even his ex-psychiatrist.

Despite the lack of feathers on his back, John almost felt like soaring.

-o-

It was roughly a year since their first meeting that John knew he was madly in love with his flatmate.

It was also around this time that the subject of his wings returned.

“It is special.”

John blinked as he rubbed the towel against his wet hair. “What is?” He was use to Sherlock’s random statements—how he would all of a sudden start in the middle of a conversation that John had no part of.

“Your gifts. Your feathers.”

“Oh…” His eyes narrowed before he looked surprised. “Oh.”

“You said it wasn’t.” Sherlock continued, despite John understanding now. “But it is.”

“Oh, uhm,” John cleared his throat. No one has ever said that, at least not so bluntly. He had been thanked for his feathers, of course, but the action had never been called special before.

“You already realize it now, of course, you’re not that ridiculously stupid.” Sherlock moved around the couch, distracting himself with a search for hidden cigarette. “A few centuries ago plucking the feather was seen only as an exchange for marriage vows or territory treaties. Of course, now that we have rings that practice has been disbanded. It was too painful, many would faint after the removal.”

“Mhm, the wings are durable and strong, but once you actually try to harm them they can be more fragile than the eye.” John confirmed as he wrapped the towel behind his neck.

“The pain is supposed to be brutal. A single point, roughly the size of pen-tip, and it shocks your whole system.” Sherlock stopped his search and reached back to stroke his own wings.

John adored Sherlock’s wings.

They were the black, night sky with the shimmer of starlight. The feathers were glossy and clean and plenty. The wingspan was massive, possibly twelve feet. The usual length was around nine.

Sherlock’s wings were dominating, terrifying, safe, and gorgeous. Much like the man himself.

“I got use to it.” John said, a bit unsure where this conversation was heading.

“You shouldn’t have.” Sherlock whispered. “Shouldn’t have done it at all. Your body must be in pain.”

John cleared his throat. His flatmate didn’t use that tone often. It sounded tight, perhaps even sad, and it made John just want to make everything right in the world for him.

“I wouldn’t say that. Yes, I seem to ache like an old man and I can get sore easier than I should, but constant pain? No. I started this when I was young. So it really doesn’t bother me.” John gave an awkward laugh. “The sight of the wings is what gets to me.”

Sherlock frowned and looked over John’s shoulders, barely catching a glimpse of the naked skin of the left wing.

His expression confirmed John’s fears about his wings being ugly.

He kept them hidden from Sherlock’s sight after that.

-o-

John lost another feather during the Great Game.

Moriarty, a psychotic man with the most twisted personality John has ever witnessed, came into their lives with guns and explosions. His wings were the color of drying, scabbing blood.

He stole John off the street and kept him locked up for a few hours. He had walked around John, tilting his head to and fro before he had plucked the feather from his back.

It was unsurprising that he ripped the feather out, right at his war wound, and cackled as John moaned in pain.

“You seem willing to give these out to anyone. I want one.” He sounded like an excluded child. “You might be boring and predictable with your gooey, squishy heart…but I am a man of honest taste. And your feathers are…” he held up the white feather to close to his eyes.

Moriarty went silent for a while and John thought he was counting every individual soft fuzz.

“Beautiful. You would make a fine crown, Dr. Watson. Your feathers will make me feel like a king.”

John held down his desperate need to vomit.

He was strapped into a vest of explosives and forced to become the taunting puppet to the man he adored.

An expression John has never seen before crossed over Sherlock’s face briefly. So many overwhelming, negative (frightening), emotions…wrath, terror, helplessness…they were all there.

John never wanted to see that on Sherlock’s face again.

“Hiiii,” Moriarty sang out as he strutted over to the two, holding the feather out, taunting Sherlock with it. “As I was telling your doctor here, Sherly, his feathers are exquisite.” Moriarty licked the white feather erotically, purring loudly. “What a flavor your pet has, Sherly; so sweet and broken. My favorite.”

John shuddered in disgust as Jim continued to kiss and lick the feather he had so brutally ripped from his wing.

The gun in Sherlock’s hand had a slight tremor to it. “Too bad I’m not one for sharing.”

The encounter only lasted fifteen minutes at most, though it felt like years to John. It was only until a well-timed phone call took place that got them to safety. Something Sherlock could not let go…a phone call saved their lives. Not his genius. A phone call.

He was silent as he helped John up, checking him over for wounds or anything else damaging. His long fingers lingered over his wing, gently rubbing the precise location of his missing feather.

They left quietly. John didn’t take note of how Sherlock’s wings possessively wrapped over his form, cloaking him from all eyes.

-o-

Irene’s wings were so white they were almost translucent. 

They put John’s wings to shame.

She was intelligent, charming, powerful, and stunning. The absolute perfect match for Sherlock.

John couldn’t help but be bitter, jealous, and say things with a cutting tone during their encounter with her. 

He tried to pass it all off as being protective, because he didn’t trust Irene. She was a criminal, she did drug Sherlock, and she kept playing them both for fools. But John knew it was because, despite all of this (or maybe because of it), Sherlock still looked at Irene with respect and affection…and it made everything in John hurt.

It made everything worse when she was officially killed off as told by Mycroft and John knew if Sherlock found out he would be devastated.

Because John was sure Sherlock loved her.

So, seeing that man’s beautiful eyes, questioning his awkward stuttering entrance John found despite all the anger and jealousy he simply could not tell Sherlock the truth.

He pushed aside the folder and tried to get a cohesive story; because Sherlock deserved happiness…and deserved better than a broken soldier with naked, ugly wings.

Sherlock nodded and seemed to take the lie with stride, something that should’ve signaled warning signs to John. The topic was changed and Sherlock went back to his experiment, a small smirk on his face.

Hours later, deep into the night John was busying himself with menial chores. Sleep was far off due to the day’s events and every time he closed his eyes he pictured Sherlock and Irene. Dead or not, John felt like he was no competition for the woman.

“Stop moving and go to sleep already.” Sherlock demanded dryly. “All your pacing is driving me mad.”

“I’m cleaning, not pacing.” John muttered back, but decided he had done enough. He could just go up and read for a few hours. “Fine, fine….I’ll…uhm…yeah, good night.”

“John?”

“Yes?” John turned to look at Sherlock who was now standing in the room, staring at him without blinking.

“Come here.” He beckoned.

Confused, John did as told and approached Sherlock. He stared at the taller man for a minute, waiting for something to happen.

When it did, it was something John would never forget.

Sherlock wrapped his arms and wings around the smaller man and pulled him close. He placed his mouth next to John’s ear and took a few breaths before he said soft words.

“Your wings are beautiful.” Sherlock whispered, holding on tight to John as the clock chimed the midnight hour. Irene’s file lay forgotten in the corner.

-o-

“Please,” John begged, watching Sherlock’s body teeter on the edge of St. Barts. “Don’t. I’ll give you anything. You can have all my feathers i-if that will make you feel better. You can study them every day if you want. I won’t complain about your experiments ever again. Just please…don’t do this.”

Sherlock hiccupped on the other end of the line. “You deserved so much better than this John. So, so much better. I’m just so sorry I had to be the one to hurt you like this.”

“Don’t.” John’s throat felt dry. “Please, oh God, please…don’t.”

“It’s just a magic trick. Just another little lie to add on to my pile.”

“What?” John shook his head, feeling woozy and out of sorts. This had to be a nightmare. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. “Sherlock, don’t. Please. You’re not a liar. You’re not a fake. You’re Sherlock Holmes. You can do anything. So get off that roof. We can talk about this.”

“No John.” Sherlock’s voice was so heavy. “Promise me you will be good, ok? Promise me, you won’t change.”

“Oh God, don’t do this Sherlock. Please.”

“Good bye John.”

“Sherlock!” John practically screeched as he watched his best friend, the person he loved more than anything, throw the phone away and stepped off the roof.

John didn’t lose another feather until Sherlock’s funeral five days later.

He had an empty stare at the gravestone, feeling like he was made of nothing. He placed his white feather down before the stone, thinking it better fitting than flowers, and moved away.

“I don’t think I deserve to be here.” John whispered. “Anywhere, really. I seem to just touch people and they fall apart. I had…ahem,” his voice caught in his throat and it felt like he was close to throwing it all up. “I had hoped you would be different, but, uhm…”

This was so difficult. It was heart-crushingly difficult.

“Well, we see it sadly wasn’t meant to be. I-I…uhm, I just wanted to say…you were more human than most. You were good and kind, in your own way, and did things no one else…no else could ever…ever achieve. You gave me a new life, gave me everything really and I owe you so much. I was so…so very much alone and you gave me just so much. So…uhm, so thank you for that.”

It felt cold, colder than it probably was. John tried to control the shaking but he had no way in feeling warm again.

“I’ll come back when I can. Give you updates, though I don’t suppose that stuff concerns you. Probably would say it was useless…” He gasped and held his chest as the word bounced around in his head. It took approximately three minutes to stop seeing spots and for the echo of his father to regress back in the confinements of his mind.

“Just…please, just one more miracle, for me. Please. Sherlock, don’t….don’t be dead.” John pleaded, his voice like gravel. 

He inhaled and then straightened his back and walked off. His leg and wings burning as he left.

It remained still and silent in the cemetery for approximately seven minutes and then the next figure approached the site.

Sherlock Holmes walked to the tombstone and picked up the feather. He caressed it tenderly before he brought it close to his chest.

“My ridiculous angel.”

-o-

John’s feathers were falling, much like Sherlock’s body.

Each day he would wake up from a nightmare-filled sleep and find a few more feathers in his bed. John could only stare at them with contempt before he threw them away.

They disgusted him.

They reminded him of how worthless he was. He didn’t deserve anything.

He would burn some of them, others he would put down the disposal in the sink, but most of them he would put where they belonged: in the garbage.

It was nearly six months till John removed a feather of his own will. 

Greg Lestrade was suffering a lot in his work. People were calling him incompetent and a partner in Sherlock’s ruse (a ruse John still vehemently fought against being true).

Although John loathed venturing out much, Greg needed him. So he bought the Detective Inspector a drink, letting the man finally vent out all his frustrations and anger and hurt, tipsy from nearly five pints, and took him home to sleep it off.

He left a feather in Greg’s pocket, hoping it would make him feel better to some degree.

John highly doubted it though.

-o-

John gave up feathers to Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Mike, and Molly…all gave him various looks of hurt and pity.

John started to pull back after that.

People were staring at him in the street and he knew that they, somehow, could see how hideous his wings were.

Nearly a year after Sherlock’s suicide, John plucked a feather from his wing and didn’t give it to anyone. He just dropped it to the ground.

He did it again and again and again.

The first night he pulled twelve feathers. Three days later he pulled out seven. After the first week he stopped plucking them and started to claw them out, ripping flesh out as well.

By the end of two months, he had pulled out nearly all his feathers and then tossed them in the garbage.

There was nothing beautiful or special about them, so what was the point of having them anyway?

-o-

With almost all the feathers gone, John started to scratch at the bare muscle that was left. He would leave it bleeding and raw for days.

Everything ached. His back was constantly on fire, he snapped into fevers easily, and would limp worse than when he returned from the war. Everything hurt and yet he was strangely numbed to it.

John supposed it was a blessing. He was able to ignore it and just concentrate on being a doctor.

He might be a failure in everything else, but he was at least going to continue with his purpose and help those that he could.

But three months before the second anniversary, John fainted on the job was forced to resign.

He didn’t leave 221b for six weeks.

-o-

Sherlock came back an early fall evening, nearly two years after his funeral.

He came back with a case and without a chance to process anything; John had a taste of his old life back.

Four days later, when the intense case was resolved, the two found themselves back home…and having no idea what to do or say to each other.

John avoided Sherlock’s eyes, not wanting to show his despair and broken soul. He was still unsure if Sherlock was still alive. He moved around the man, afraid he would bite or break if ventured too close.

Sherlock was much the same. His fingers were desperate to touch John, but it looked like the man was a fragile shell of his former self. One touch and he would turn to dust.

“I guess…uhm…I’ll make tea.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, eager to get back to a domestic life with John. Something he would never take for granted again. “Please.”

John took off his coat and placed it to the side and limped into the kitchen, trying to hide from Sherlock’s piercing glare.

He stared, in a trance, at the boiling water and then his back started to itch.

Forgetting about the day, feeling like it was nothing but madness, John began to remove his shirt to give his back some air. Later he would have to put more ointment on it…it hasn’t bothered him this much in a while.

“Sweat does that to them…” he noted to himself only to pale as his mind came back into sorts.

Sherlock was alive. He wasn’t a hallucination.

A sharp intake of breath confirmed that and John looked at the man entering the kitchen with horror.

Sherlock stared back with the same expression. “J-John…oh…oh god, John…”

“Shit.” John shook his head, trying to untangle his arms, as calmly as possible, and hide himself. 

“Your wings…” Sherlock whimpered, reaching for the broken wings upon John’s back. “John…your beautiful wings.”

“It’s nothing.” John quickly pulled the shirt around his shoulders, keeping them to his back and hidden. He didn’t want to show anyone, especially Sherlock, the sight. Sherlock, with his still ever imposing beauty and strong wings…why did he have to be the one to see them?

They had almost completely molted and had scars from his anxiety attacks where he would just pull them out one at a time for hours. His nail marks were forever imprinted in them and some pieces appeared to have been ripped off, now replaced with lighter, clumped skin. There were hard hairs growing from some points and bruises that never wanted to disappear. They stooped lowly, expressing pain and depression better than John could ever voice.

They were his hideous secret and Sherlock saw them. 

“Please,” Sherlock begged as he approached the man. He reached for the shirt, wanting to see them. Wanting to tend to them. Wanting to kiss them and never let them out of his sight. “Please.”

“Let it go, Sherlock.” John hissed and pulled away from him.

“No, I…John…”

“Let. It. Go.” John snarled, looking at Sherlock with raw fury and hate. “You will not touch them.”

Sherlock looked at the blond with heartache but allowed his hand to fall limply at his side. “O-Ok.”

John fought back the guilt eating at his stomach and walked past his now-alive flatmate. “I’ll go get dinner, or something. I’ll be back.”

“I-I could go with you.” Sherlock tried. 

“I’m fine on my own.” John shook his head and left without waiting for a response.

Sherlock could hear him stumble down the stairs and rush out of their home. He fell weakly back in his chair and buried his face into his hands.

“John,” he whimpered. “I want my John.”

-o-

The flat remained tense for nearly a month.

John tried his best; Sherlock could see it every day. John would make tea, try for small talk, force a very weak smile, and sometimes give Sherlock a pat on the shoulder.

When Sherlock was at his worst, when he suffered nightmares, John would come into his room and gently stroke his back to help soothe him to a comfortable sleep. Or he would whisper things when Sherlock thought he was back in the world, fighting enemies at every turn.

God, did he ever appreciate how hard John tried for him. But he knew he didn’t deserve any of this. Not from John. Not after he destroyed John, the most amazing man in the world. 

John refused to let Sherlock touch him (unless Sherlock truly needed it) and always kept his wings out of sight. John’s smiles never reached his eyes and many nights Sherlock would hear him try to conceal sobs.

Sherlock was at a total loss.

“I…uhm…” John cleared his throat one morning, walking away from the breakfast table. He rarely ate, but he made sure Sherlock did.

“What?” Sherlock pressed. He was always ready to hear John speak. John rarely spoke so hearing him try to start a conversation was a blessing.

“I’m thinking about getting them removed.” John confessed awkwardly. “My wings, you know--”

There was a sharp intake of breath followed by a loud crash.

John jumped and looked in shock at the fallen plate that had been in Sherlock’s hand. 

“No, no, no, no.” Sherlock repeated as he approached John, a wild and desperate look in his eyes. “No.”

“S-Sherlock.” John choked a bit, licking his lips as he tried to move away. Touching was still something he couldn’t handle. “T-They’re hideous and useless. They don’t grow feathers.”

“No.” Sherlock was fast and grabbed John.

“Sherlock?!” John yelped, trying to get out of his hold but only found himself face first into the couch. Sherlock spread himself on top of the smaller man and then ripped his shirt off of his body with a surprising amount of strength.

“W-What?! What the hell?!” John gaped, stunned and unsure what was happening.

“My wings.” Sherlock gasped, drinking in the sight of the naked wings. Up this close he could read the damage and oh, how it broke his heart. He began to kiss at them frantically. “Mine. My beautiful wings.”

“S-Sherlock?!” John sputtered, so stunned it was impossible to form a coherent sentence. “What the hell do you—what do you mean your—get off!”

“No,” Sherlock gave another kiss to them. “I’ve backed off from you long enough. I won’t have you continue to break in front of me, I can’t take it. And I will never let you get rid of your wings.”

“They’re NOT yours! I am the one who will decide what will happen to them.” John growled, trying to get out of the taller man’s hold. “Let go!”

“No.” His tongue darted out and traced a scar tenderly. “They are mine. You gave them to me, remember? And I want them. You can’t get rid of them. You can’t destroy yourself like this any more.”

“It’s…it’s not your choice.” John growled. It was hard to catch his breath.

“Mine.” Sherlock whispered as he nuzzled into them, sniffling. “Please. Let them still be mine.”

“N-No.” John wavered, wanting to give everything up to the genius as usual.

“Please. We can exchange.”

“E-Exchange?” John didn’t understand.

“Here, look, for you. All for you.” Sherlock spread out his wings to cover them both. “You can have them all. They can be yours. Here,” his voice was tight and desperate and he plucked a feather from his back. He held it up to John, “i-it can be our engagement ring.”

“Engagement…Sherlock, you shouldn’t have done that!” The pain that must be shooting through the man’s back right now, how could he do something like that to himself?

“We’ll rebuild you together.” Sherlock promised, pressing the black feather on into John’s hand. “You can have all my feathers. You can have my wings. You can have it all.”

John sucked in a sharp breath. Those words rang eerily familiar to his pleads when Sherlock was upon the roof.

“I rejected you then. I deserve to be rejected now, but please…don’t.” Sherlock begged, trying to get John’s fingers to wrap around the feather. “Let me fix you.”

John turned away, trying not to cry. “The doctors said they would never grow. Even with your brain, you can’t get them to come back. They’re going to be naked and scarred till I die.”

“They’re still beautiful.” Sherlock whispered, kissing them again. “They’re so beautiful.”

“No--”

“Yes.” Sherlock hissed. “I won’t hear anything but acceptance with this. You gave up your feathers for others. You gave them up for me. I will take care of you. I will fix you. Just let me.”

John struggled a little, but Sherlock would not let him up. He massaged and kissed the wings, showing tenderness, but it was clear he would not move. John stilled himself, feeling his heart sputter uncomfortably against his ribs.

“I-I…c-can’t be fixed.”

“Yes you can. It will take time. But you can.” Sherlock promised as he sprawled over him, acting like a lumpy but warm blanket. He pressed the feather into John’s hand, intertwining their fingers together.

Slowly, John’s fingers wrapped back and gave Sherlock’s hand a weak, confirming squeeze.

-o-

Things were rough, still. But John and Sherlock tried for each other.

Sherlock suffered his own panic-attacks and hated for John to be far from him. He wouldn’t let John out on his own, afraid that he would disappear and come back wingless.

He constantly checked John’s back, rubbing over them with possessive fingers.

John was still silent and unsure how to communicate with Sherlock. He feared the man would leave again, or would really wind up dead. At the same time, he was overwhelmed, if not suffocated, by Sherlock’s ever-present state.

But they were trying and it was showing.

John was eating and feeling better than he had in years. A weight was removed from his shoulders. Every day he would hold the black feather to him, finding it giving him strength. He could actually smile and it would reach his eyes.

Sherlock suffered fewer nightmares, though he demanded to sleep with John every night to fight them off. He would eat without pressure and now preferred quiet nights on the couch than a need to go off daily for a high of a case.

Each day was a battle, but they were winning them and growing stronger every day because of it.

One morning, John woke up alone in bed and with a new ache in his wings.

It was different than what he was use to and decided to check it out after showering and using the loo. It was an odd sensation that felt similar to when he use to pluck the feathers, but different. It was unusual and hard to explain.

John rubbed over the tender spot but pulled back as if burned. He blinked, stunned, and rubbed it again. “Oh…oh…Sherlock?” He gasped silently before he stumbled out of the bathroom, coming across Sherlock hunched over the microscope.

“Sherlock…” John whispered, slowly unveiling his wings from behind his back. “L-Look.”

The man did as told, “what is it?”

“Look.” John pressed again. “Is it…? I mean, am I…?”

“I don’t…oh,” his cat-like eyes blinked a few moments, absorbing the sight before him. Sherlock reached up with shaking hands and stroked the skin. He could feel it under his thumb, the small bump that was trying to break free. “A feather. John…a feather.”

John couldn’t speak. He hadn’t grown any feathers since he was a teenager.

“They’re growing.” Sherlock’s face broke out into the biggest grin that has ever been upon it. “Your feathers are growing back.”

“I…uhm…” John cleared his throat, trying to remain calm, but was very giddy. “Y-Yes. I-I…I guess I was able to be fixed after all.”

Sherlock laughed and pulled him close to him, kissing over his face.

“You do know,” John began, holding him back. “I will probably want to give them to people again.”

“Absolutely not.” Sherlock warned. “I told you, these wings are mine now. And you will never let anyone have your feathers ever again.”

John grinned into Sherlock’s shoulder. He found he didn’t mind reserving them all for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was a decent enough little story! I love focusing on John's selflessness and strong character ways. I will admit, since he is my favorite character, I may make him better than he may be presented at times, but I can't help it.
> 
> Hope it ended strong enough and thank you all for taking the time to read it :)

**Author's Note:**

> Another new Johnlock story. This one, I think, has a bit more angst than A Little Attempt and should only be a two-shot. Hope it is enjoyed! Sorta, not really, sorry for all the John-adoration!


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